


Interrupted

by afdl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 20:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16562558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afdl/pseuds/afdl





	Interrupted

John dropped his head against the brass knocker that adorned the front of 221B Baker Street, defeated. John had locked himself out--left his keys in his office at the hospital, actually--and there was no one to let him him. Idiot, he thought to himself, and checked his phone again in case the idiot had gotten around to responding to his texts. 

Sherlock hadn’t.

He moved himself under the Speedy’s awning down the way to spare himself the spattering of raindrops just beginning and shivered while he considered what to do next. It was Sherlock’s fault John’s keys were sitting safely in his jacket pocket, hanging on a coat stand, a taxi-ride away. Sherlock had barged in--while he was seeing a patient, mind you--and told him they must be going, immediately. 

The patient, a slightly bland young mother wearing wrinkled khaki pants, had practically choked on the throat swab John was in the process of collecting. 

John couldn’t quite recall what he had said to reassure her, the poor woman, but he distinctly remembered Sherlock insisting “No--don’t bother--we haven’t got the time--” as he had gone for the coat stand, and instead they took the back stairs out of the hospital and into a waiting cab. 

He could go back to the hospital, of course, but he wouldn’t have time to tidy himself up before his drinks and hopefully dinner with Erin. Erin, the blonde, the one with the pale pink lipstick and ready smile, the kind of smile that took up the whole face...sighing, John stepped out to the curb to hail a passing cab and climbed in, with a rueful look at his rumpled shirt. At least if he had his jacket on to meet her she might not realize at first, at least until they went inside and he had to take it off. 

**

“You’re out late,” called Sherlock from his seat in the kitchen as John returned.

“Nice of you to notice,” John replied, in a good mood, despite his earlier irritation. A couple of pints and a nice smile could do that to you, he thought as he unwound his scarf. He heard Sherlock pause, and the sound of the chair pushing back. 

Sherlock stood in the doorway a moment to observe John, before disappearing back into the kitchen. “Not the shops, then. We’re out of milk.”

Rolling his eyes, John concluded that didn’t warrant a response, and decided to settle into his seat in front of the fire for the rest of the evening. Sherlock was occupied, and John dozed comfortably as he watched the flames. Another full day gone by, a day that began at the hospital, took a delightful detour through some shops and only one back alley, a few minutes at Scotland Yard to catch up Lestrade on the situation, before drinks and dinner and a nightcap with Erin. Which is what he had explained to her while begging off staying for another. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, in fact the evening had been pleasant, and Erin was certainly lovely--but it was late, he was tired, and if he really liked her that much, it was best to take it slow, eh?

She had been disappointed, but they had made tentative plans already for an evening next week. If only John could guarantee that he wouldn’t be off on a case--but what could he do? Mystery, murder, and Sherlock knew no schedule. He would make it work, like he always did. 

**

John felt Sherlock go still against his back. He tightened his grip on his revolver, waiting, listening, feeling for a cue, any cue--and there is was. Sherlock leaned left, John spun around on his right, and while the gentleman threatening Sherlock was distracted for a moment staring down the barrel of John’s revolver, Sherlock took out his feet from under him. And after a tense moment, Sherlock laughed at the sight of the man splayed out, and told him, “Go on. Get out! And if any of my people catch you at it again, you’ll be hearing from us again!”

Over takeaway that evening, John was curious. “Why did you let him go? We had enough to take him to Lestrade.”

Across from him, on the other end of the couch, his knees tucked up as high as his shoulders, Sherlock told him imperiously “He won’t go at it again. Why bother?”

John stretched out his own legs to poke at Sherlock’s shin. “How did you know, though? How can you be so sure?” Sherlock let his knee fall to the side and leaned forward, already anticipating the pleasure of sharing his deductions to an admiring audience. “It was simple, really. He was an amateur, obviously, which I could tell because of his lack of any real weapon, and lack of creativity with his threats. This was his second heist--or would have been, if we hadn’t interrupted--and he was only at it for his vanity, which we certainly got in the way of…”

And John settled in to hear more of the inner workings of Sherlock’s mind, for him, the best way to spend an evening. 

By the time the last of the takeaway was abandoned and the fire dying down, Sherlock and John were next to each other on the couch, with their feet stretched out in front. John knew he must look a love struck fool, leaning toward Sherlock and looking up at him to laugh at the appropriate moments as Sherlock entertained him with more and more fantastical details of a case last week that John had missed most of. 

He wasn’t love struck, of course, but it was sort of strange how John felt his orbit had changed since Sherlock had returned from the dead. 

“John.” Sherlock had noticed the moment John’s attention wandered. Of course. Now Sherlock was looking at John’s upturned face squarely, looking into John’s eyes, probing--and John took a quick breath, and without letting himself think a single thought, leaned in, and kissed him. Full on those lips, those pink lips, those perfect lips in the shape of a perfect bow, John kissed Sherlock, and put his hand on Sherlock’s him to--balance himself? Pull Sherlock closer? 

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist as if to pull him away, and so John sat back, and realized what he had done. Sherlock took him in: breathing heavy, heart racing--Sherlock could feel it, John’s pulse at his wrist where Sherlock was holding--and his pupils blown wide. Sherlock’s breath hitched, and this time it was him that leaned forward to press his lips against John’s.

From there the situation devolved rapidly. Sherlock could not seem to get enough of John’s mouth. He leaned into John, seemingly ravenous, and quickly his tongue found his way in. John fell back on the couch, weak, unable to focus on anything but the taste--the taste!--of Sherlock. Sherlock, whose mouth was warm and moving against his own. His free hand found Sherlock’s dark curls and held on. Sherlock was exploring, with the same intensity he explored the reactive properties of blood or the mineral properties of city dirt or the hidden vanities of small-time bank robbers, and just as with any of those, he would not stop until he had discovered everything he could.


End file.
